


Hello My Auld Heart

by thefraserwitch



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, F/M, Modern AU, reunion au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefraserwitch/pseuds/thefraserwitch
Summary: A modern take on Jamie and Claire's relationship, 20 year separation, and reunion in a modern setting.  The soundtrack for this fic is Mumford & Son's album Delta: https://open.spotify.com/album/3thbkS5Ijz41mAbAOat7wc.





	1. Chapter 1

_**Jamie’s POV** _

 

Pulling the door tight behind him, Jamie Fraser shrugged off his thick, wool peacoat and brushed off the errant snowflakes that dusted his shoulders and his russet locks. The restaurant was jam packed, bustling with patrons waiting for a table or perching on stools, comfortable to make do at the bar. The staff constantly tripped over themselves as they ushered waiting guests to tables and served hungry diners with their long awaited meals. He sighed gustily. At heart, he wished to sit down at a table to enjoy his dinner properly, but he’d gladly settle for a stool at the bar, his stomach grumbling angrily in search of sustenance.

 

A young, cheerful hostess greeted him from behind a tall, solid wood barrier that shielded the probably messy staff area from the restaurant’s guests.

 

“Good e’en to ye - do ye have a reservation wi’ us tonight?” she asked, her eyes sparkled with the uncompromised joy and promise of youth that had yet to be tarnished by old age as Jamie had known.

 

Jamie felt his cheeks flush warm with embarrassment as he shook his head, rambling, “Nae, is just me tonight, lass. A table for one, if ye can spare it or I can just find a spot at the bar…”

 

The smile fell from her face as she ruefully informed him of the present state of things. The bar was packed, and the crowd of patrons waiting for a table was nearly bursting out onto the snowy sidewalk. His prospects were certainly grim.

 

“I’m sae sorry, sir, but unless yer waitin’ on someone else, I must ask ye to take a seat at the bar or find a meal elsewhere,” she apologized.

 

Jamie nodded solemnly. He inched his right hand into the sleeve of his coat as the bell above the restaurant door rang out, announcing a new patron. A cool breeze wrapped around him, and he swore for just a minute _her_ scent wafted by - a unique combination of damp earth just after the rain, the fresh sting of rubbing alcohol, and a variety of herbs but especially lavender. All of these were common place of course, but mixed together, they belonged only to one singular person. He shook his head to clear his memory of any errant dreams of what might have been when a voice from the past called out to him.

 

_“Jamie?”_ She asked, her voice as clear and as distinct as the bell above the restaurant door.

 

“It’s me,” she reminded him, her voice pleading and soft, _“Claire.”_

 

A fierce chill and a blazing heat trapped his body in a vice grip simultaneously and instantly as she spoke, freezing every joint in his body in place. Her hand softly brushed against the back of his shoulder, invoking memories two decades old to stir from their graves.

 

**~*~**

 

**_Claire’s POV_ **

 

The heavy wooden door closed behind her, shutting out the cold winter air and stealing her breath right along with it. Claire bit her lip, and searing pain and the copper tang of blood flooded her mouth as proof that it wasn’t at all a dream. The world around her slowed as her focused narrowed to one singular pinpoint - one person.

 

_**James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.** _

 

He was still just as tall ( _her head came just to the top his chest for his chin to rest on top of her curls_ ). He was still fit, braw and muscular from many years spent as a professional athlete ( _Claire noticed the breadth of his shoulders hidden beneath his wool coat and her fingers twitched at the memory of her hands gripping his back as she lost herself to him_ ). His hair was still the most brilliant shade of red ( _ribbons of copper and gold twisting together, curling at the nape of his neck_ ), though streaked with strands of silver since last she saw him.

 

Even after twenty years apart, Claire still found herself swooning ( _her legs turning to water and her heart stuttering to a halt_ ) at the sight of Jamie Fraser. Even with his back turned towards her, she went weak at the knees...and then he turned to face her...

 

_**“Claire.”** _

 

Her name fell from his lips ( _in prayer, in blasphemy_ ). The syllables turned over in his mouth, foreign as a new language ( _one that he’d quickly master to be sure_ ) on his tongue yet familiar as his favorite stories ( _selkies and waterhorses if her memory served her right_ ). Though short, her name lingered on his tongue as if he was personally acquainting himself with each of the five letters. He elongated the vowels, marrying the blended sound of A and I together in until the soared on the breeze off the coast of Skye ( _where he had proposed marriage, togetherness, and a life built together instead of apart the last two decades_ ). The R rumbled deep in his chest, thundering low like a late summer storm ( _like the one that poured overhead the first time they’d made love_ ). The echo of his timber flooded her ears, the sound of her name from his mouth drowning out the surrounding din of the busy restaurant.

 

_“Hi,”_ Claire said weakly, her lashes fluttering to beat back the tears that threatened to fall.

 

Two hundred years apart couldn’t lessen the blow of seeing Jamie Fraser again.

 

“What are ye doin here? In Edinburgh?” He clarified as he crossed the distance between them in two long strides. Subconsciously, his hands reached and raised to her shoulders to embrace her ( _as did hers_ ) before they suddenly stopped, pausing awkwardly as they both remembered themselves.

 

She shrugged before she took her right hand in his, grasping it tightly in a friendly handshake. “A conference… and you?”

 

“I… I live here now,” he stuttered, his eyes darting from her own, to her lips, to some far off corner above her right ear as he tried to remember himself. “Just took up a new client - a young kid from France. He’s a bonnie fighter.”

 

_Fighter._

 

It hit her hard. The very word was a sucker punch right to her gut. Memories flooded her vision, surging forward with the ferocity of the jabs he used to throw ( _the way his muscles rippled in a fight, his bruised and battered hands cradling her face_ ). With every happy thought, a sad one followed and opened old wounds ( _tear stained cheeks and lonely, sterile hospital rooms_ ). After all, it takes time to cure all ills ( _to mend the jagged broken bones that had once pierced through his skin… to neatly suture each laceration sliced across her heart_ ). Most days passed without thought of the missing half that once made the other whole ( _though neither would admit the deep ache in their bones, longing for their missing counterpoint_ )... and yet before each other now, neither could deny the blinding pain as the stitching that held them together all of these years slowly unraveled.

 

They winced simultaneously ( _eyes squeezing shut and jaws clenching as they’re deepest wounds were flayed open and bared for all to see…_ ).

 

“I’m on the _training_ end of things... nowadays,” he shrugged his shoulders as he offered his explanation.

 

Claire nodded slowly as she took in the information while still holding tightly to Jamie’s hand. His fingers firmly grasped her own, and she took note of how his hand still completely enveloped her own, how his skin felt against her own ( _warm and inviting_ ). She didn’t let go… and neither did he.

 

“Tis good tae see ye again… _Sassenach_ …” Jamie sighed, stepping closer towards her ducking his head to meet her gaze.

 

She tilted her head upwards, peering directly into his face. His eyes flashed, brilliant blue sapphires twinkling against his ruddy complexion before he suddenly went green about the gills. Claire felt his weight press into her as he slowly tilted forward, swaying indelicately into her arms.

 

“Easy there, soldier…” she coughed as she caught his shoulders, bracing Jamie upright before he could fall to the ground. “Can’t have you keeling over at the hostess stand… it’d be bad for business…”

 

As their limbs tangled in a messy embrace, Jamie found his footing. His chin collided with her shoulder with a shocking thud; the resulting pain that coursed through her veins jolted her from the shock of seeing him again… from touching him again. Her hands found his shoulders, and his arms wrapped about her waist as they danced in the foyer of the restaurant ( _propriety be damned_ ). They swayed together, slowly and uninterrupted until they found equilibrium once more.

 

“No… it wouldn’t,” Jamie wheezed as he righted himself, standing upright and holding her at a distance. “Jenny always did say I’d faint if I ever saw ye again…”

 

_Jenny._

 

Claire felt her chest grow tight at the name - a long lost sister that time had forgotten. With the mention of her name, she was transported to Lallybroch ( _home_ ). Dogs barking, birds chirping, and children playing in cacophonous harmony called to mind. Warm sunlight stained her skin with freckles even in the bleakest winters. The scent of freshly baked bannocks flooded her scenes ( _though it could’ve been the kitchen_ ), and her heart broke once more in the matter of moments.

 

“How _is_ Jenny?” Claire demanded, pulling back to grasp both of Jamie’s hands within her own, nearly shaking as she tried to conceal her emotions ( _entirely tattered and frayed at the edges_ ). “And Ian? How many children do they have now?”

 

He chuckled, his eyes casting down towards his own feet as he corrected her. “ _Grandchildren_ , more like…”

 

Patrons shuffled past, nudging them aside with jostled shoulders and fleeting glances of disdain. The door to the restaurant opened and flooded the foyer with an icy breeze. Even more patrons funneled through the narrow opening, pushing past the barricade of bodies and ushering Claire and Jamie once more.

 

“I was just leaving,” he confessed, gesturing towards the door. “They’re full up and I dinna have a reservation…”

 

Without pause, she caught his hand mid-air, threading her fingers through his. She gently guided his arm down to rest by her side ( _as it had before… as it always should have been_ ). Her hand drifted upwards, rubbing warmth and reassurance into his very bones.

 

“Tell me about them…” she urged as her free hand combed back her errant curls. “ _You_ … _**everything**_...… join me for dinner?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie and Claire first meet twenty-three years ago...

_**Twenty-three years earlier** _

 

This was it… he was truly dead this time. His mother always told him this would happen. Her shrill cries echoed in his memories as he faced his last moments in this world

 

_“One of these days, a punch will knock ye clear tae Kingdom come!”_

 

And the Lord’s Kingdom had certainly come for him. Darkness surrounded Jamie, blanketing him and dulling his senses. A deafening silence echoed throughout the never-ending expanse that was the after life. He never expected a place so quiet to be so loud ( _he’d always imagined heaven to be quite peaceful_ ), but as he witnessed it for himself, the stillness of the space was louder than any rock band he’d ever heard. His ear drums ached with the incessant ringing.

 

Slowly, the pulsing clangor eased, waning like the moon that still hung in the sky on his early morning run to the gym. Through the din, voices called to him over and over in a cyclical chorus of his many names.

 

_Jamie, a bhalaich, can ye hear me?_

_James, ye dolt, ye tripped over yer own two feet!_

_I’m sae sorry, Mac Dubh._

_Oy, Fraser! Ye owe me ten quid!_

 

On and on, the voices circled him like vultures, taunting him as he lay suffering yet waiting to pounce the second his soul left his body… until a new sound - a _new_ voice - broke through the chaos.

 

**_Are you alright?_ **

 

The incessant noise gave way, and the darkness slowly lifted. She called to him, her voice drawing him out from the depths. A hand brushed against his neck, the pads of her fingers pressing just beneath his jawline as she muttered to herself ( _counting the pulses that throbbed beneath his skin… one, two, three…_ ). He stirred under her touch, the feeling of his skin against hers igniting a spark deep within him. She called to him again.

 

_**Sir, can you hear me?** _

 

Her hands traced over his prone form, examining his body for any injury. She was gentle ( _handling his limbs with care as she lifted the arm that had been draped across his torso_ ) yet firm ( _commanding her partner with the ferocity of a seasoned general_ ). Whoever she was, she had a good touch, and her husband ( _fiancé… boyfriend… lover_ ) was a very lucky man. Jamie felt himself rousing to her, his body responding her call. His pulse thundered loudly in his ears and his breath came short as her fingertips whispered his every want and desire across his skin until…

 

_**“Ifrinn!”** _He groaned.

 

Pain bloomed across his face as her fingers gingerly pressed against his swollen cheek, assessing the damage beneath his ( _probably_ ) bruised skin. Reflexively resisting the source of his current torment, he jerked backwards and his eyes flew open wide. He squinted in the brightness of day, harsh in contrast to the darkness of his unconscious self, and hissed at the burning sensation heralding his injured ( _most likely broken_ ) cheekbone that followed. Slowly, he blinked as he registered his surroundings. A gasp suddenly flew from his lips as the sight of her cleared in his vision.

 

Her dark hair was pulled back, but loose tendrils curled about her face. Errant ringlets gently caressed her forehead. Her pale skin was perfectly clear, almost luminescent and glowing in the late morning sun - minus the dusting of freckles that sprinkled her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her perfectly pink lips pouted, frowning in pure concentration, but still Jamie bet that when she smiled her cheeks dimpled ever so slightly. As his gaze met hers, her eyes flashed ( _in excitement, in worry_ ), dancing the spectrum of color from late autumnal gold, fiery burnt sienna, and a deep amber that could only belong to perfectly aged whisky.

 

_She was Aphrodite, Brigid, and the Virgin Mary all rolled into one superior being._

 

“Welcome back, soldier,” she quipped. Her accent mocked him in its proper perfection that only belonged to the British aristocracy ( _entirely neutral with no hint of a dialect revealing her homeland_ ). She was a true outsider - a Sassenach - in these parts.

 

His heart lurched in his chest, struggling to find its regular rhythm from a sluggish, sleep-ridden beat. He pushed his weight into his hands and tried to sit upright once more. The woman ( _saint… angel… goddess..._ ) offered her hand to him, and as he accepted her assistance, she scooped her free arm beneath him, bracing his shoulders as he sat upright again. The instant her hand met his, Jamie shook in her arms, the feel of her skin against his sending shock waves rolling through his system.

 

“Was I out long?” He wheezed as a cough sputtered from his lungs, partially from his fall but more in an attempt to hide his obvious attraction to the medic before him.

 

She opened her mouth to speak, but instead, he heard his coach - his Uncle Dougal - voice his opinion. “Nay, Jamie, ye weren’t out more ’an five minutes… let’s get ye up-“

 

“He was unconscious for more than twenty minutes based on the time the call came in and when we arrived,” she snapped, her tone even yet firm as she continued on, “ - and I have yet to finish assessing _my_ patient’s injuries so you will leave him put until _I_ say so.”

 

Two… and then three heavy laden footsteps followed, matching the sure and proud cadence of his uncle. Silence hung uncomfortably in the air, waiting to be filled by raucous arguments and hurled curses.

 

“And he’s _my_ nephew… as well as my prized fighter...” Dougal asserted. “He tripped an’ hit the ropes a bit hard. He’s a bit shocked is all… com’on lads, let’s get him up…”

 

“And you have no idea how extensive his injuries are...” the Sassenach argued, rising to her feet. “You’ll unhand him, **_now._** ”

 

Jamie felt as if he’d become the prized knot in a battle of tug of war. Dougal stood behind him, his back braced against the man’s shins… and the medic - this Sassenach stood before him, her stance straddling his thigh. He tilted his head backwards, looking upward into the fray, and felt his head spin - from the injury to his skull or from the battle of wits above he couldn’t be sure. When his throbbing head felt as if it might split from the throbbing ache behind his eyes, his cousin joined the fighting.

 

“Shouldn’t a lass like ye be busy changin’ bedpans and passin’ out Jello?” Rupert argued. “Saint Paul says _a woman should be seen an’ no’ heard…_ ”

 

“Shouldn’t a lad such as yourself know when to _shut up?_ ” She challenged. “You can mind your own bloody business - _and so can Saint Paul!”_

 

The lads fell quiet. They rocked from one foot to the other, their trainers scuffing against the canvas beneath their feet. A moment passed… and then another with an uneasy silence hanging above their heads. Whispers passed between them. Muttered words in their mother-tongue created a syncopated rhythm, unpredictable and eerie to the untrained ear. Without missing a beat, she matched their rhythm. She swayed from left to right and back again, balancing her weight between her feet as she crossed her arms across her chest.

 

Carelessly, she tossed her chin in the air in a cocky nod as she crowed, _“Falbh dairach fhein!”_

 

_Mary, Michael, and Bride, the mouth on this one…_

 

While the rest of the crowd grew quiet at the lady’s bawdy speech, Jamie’s ears pricked upwards, craning to hear the low laughter from behind him. The ropes surrounding the ring bowed, whining as they stretched to accommodate someone new - ally or opponent was still to be determined as far as the Sassenach was concerned. Jamie heard her breath catch as she struggled to keep her composure.

 

_“Dè an t-ainm a th ’air do chaileag?”_ Murtagh asked, as he extended his hand to her. She met his hand with her chin held high.

 

“Claire… Claire Beauchamp.”

 

Three… four syllables uttered, and Jamie Fraser was caught cold by hard sucker punch straight to his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Present day: Jamie and Claire reconnect over dinner

_Present Day_

 

Opposites attract. The different poles of a magnet are always drawn to one another, snapping together once they’re close enough in range while the ends repel their similarly charged friends. Salty flavors always pair best with sweet ( _like her affinity for dipping bits of pretzel into her vanilla gelato_ ); puzzles were only completed by connecting the pieces where one’s arm reached for the missing part of the other ( _the same way they’d once filled and completed each other with every time they were joined as one_ ).

 

Just like magnets, Claire followed the hostess, and Jamie followed Claire through the restaurant, weaving through a sea of tables and dodging servers balancing heavy laden trays. The building itself was very old - eighteenth century at the very least - and the owners and customers alike appreciated the authenticity. Several small rooms on both the first and second floors were joined through a series of heavily trimmed, yet sequential doorways without any corridor to guide one’s way through the ancient structure. Brushing past patrons and staff, narrowly avoiding the sharp corners of tables and angled legs of stray chairs, Jamie found his way past the chaos by following his guiding light.

 

**_Sorcha._ **

 

He’d only called her that once ( _the sacred name he reserved only for her accidentally slipping from his lips the first time he told her he loved her_ ). He held a certain pride in being able to speak his mother tongue fluently while others could barely muster common slang; therefore, he treasured certain words - specific names - close to his heart that were as holy to him as Yahweh or Allah ( _mo ghraidh… mo cridhe… mo leannan… m’annsaschd… Sorcha…_ ). Jamie blasphemed countless times in his life, but he’d gladly be damned a heretic to worship at her altar…

 

Now here she was again before him ( _restored to him_ ) and Jamie swore he’d follow her to the very ends of the earth, to hell and back again if she asked. For now, all he could do was escort her to their table, which he collided into soundly, the weight of him shaking the table settings with a precarious rattle. Startled by the collision, he shook his head before desperately trying to avoid her gaze when he noticed…

 

_She was smiling._

 

A delicate hand pressed over her lips to conceal a giggle that threatened to spill over like the water goblets that had teetered in Jamie’s clumsiness. Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink in contrast of her porcelain skin in the heat of the overcrowded room, and her eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky. He froze, entirely dumbstruck in her beauty. He analyzed every inch of her from the loose button on her coat to the stray curl by her right ear. When he noticed a well placed tan line on her left hand, he sobered himself. Thousands of questions raced through his mind though it wasn’t his place to ever ask them of her.

 

_Secrets… but not lies._

 

Jamie had promised her that much, years ago when they were young and foolish enough to believe that they could conquer the world and shape their future to their own liking. The freedom to withhold anything either party was unwilling to share, but the responsibility to never lie. He’d sworn a few oaths in his forty-odd years on this earth: first to never play her false, second to protect her not only with his name but with his body as well, and lastly that they’d be one until the end of their days… and he had failed her, breaking each and every last vow to her.

 

The least he could do was allow her a few secrets, even if the thought of what these secrets may be turned his stomach.

 

“Ye’d think they’d turn on some bloody lights in here…” Jamie grumbled - hoping he disguised his emotional wounds with a physical one - as he pulled Claire’s chair out before seating himself.

 

“I believe it’s what a designer would called _atmosphere_...” she teased from across the table.

 

As if summoned magically, their server appeared to distribute their menus and inquire after their drink orders ( _cocktails for now_ ), but left the wine list just in case. With a curt nod, he turned on his heel with a promise to return to answer any questions regarding the carte du jour ( _a ground-breaking blend of Asian, French, and Scottish cuisine that mystified critics and foodies alike_ ).

 

Squinting in the dim ( _damn near pitch bloody black more like_ ) candlelight, Jamie struggled to unearth the treasures of the restaurant’s success printed in a tidy, black font that could only be described as minuscule. He pinched the thin yet sturdy piece of paper between his thumb and pointer finger all the while wondering when restaurants did away with formal, weighty menus bound like a proper manuscript and type large enough to decipher. He held the menu up the meager flame of the tea lights flickering on their table, which offered no relieving illumination to his pathetic situation. He stretched his left arm long in front of him, holding the wee card at a varying degree of severe angles. He was certain he must’ve been doing a fairly dramatic interpretation of a trombone player before he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, his stomach awkwardly flipping as if he’d been standing before a crowd stark naked.

 

Jamie paused his movement to glance across the table only to find his companion ( _his **date** … the very word catching at the back of his throat_) hunched over the table, her unruly curls barely visible over the menu which was purposely pressed to the tip of her nose.

 

“They keep the print so bloody small so you don’t know how much money you’ve actually spent until the check arrives,” Claire sighed as she straightened herself upright in her chair, tossing the menu aside and tucking a stray curl behind her hair.

 

“So… did you decide?”

 

She leaned forward on her elbows, her cheeks glowing in the candlelight. Her smooth skin shining white like the fine ivory of his mother’s prized bracelets. His right hand flexed beneath the table as his memory longed to feel it’s velvety softness against his fingertips.

 

_God how she took his breath away… even after all this time…_

 

Through the dark, his fingers searched for the breast pocket of his shirt, delving deep inside to retrieve a secret he so wished to keep hidden. Anything to prolong the illusion of their youth, to bury the twenty years and all the pain that came with them deep below the cold, hard ground…

 

“If I’m tae even find the menu, it’ll be with these…” Jamie admitted, a blush staining his cheeks as he held one arm of his spectacles pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “I used to have the eyes of a hawk, but now…”

 

His words fell short and his thoughts trickled to silence as he rested the frames upon the bridge of his nose. He brought the menu in front of him once more, blinking and squinting as his sight adjusted to the new found clarity. He tried to focus on the menu, but he found his mind wandering, internally searching his memories as he attempted to recall Claire’s preferences:

 

_If she would go for the fish or the filet… which combinations of dishes would pair best with which wine… if she still even liked wine..._

 

... except he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes watching him, and when Jamie looked up from his menu, he found Claire staring at him once more. He swallowed hard, embarrassment and vanity gnawing at his belly with the same veracity as the hunger that threatened to tear him apart. He felt his self-consciousness grow obvious in the flushing red tips of his ears

 

_Thank Christ for the horrible, dim lighting._

 

He straightened his spine, holding himself to his full height and challenged her stare dead on. He tipped his head downward and gazed at her over the rims of his spectacles with a small frown gracing his lips.

 

“Ye dinna think me an auld man?” Jamie questioned, half daring her to say ‘yes’ yet half hoping she’d say ‘no.’

 

Instead, Claire met his gaze, unshed tears welling at the corners of her eyes as she reached across the table to grasp his free hand with her own.

 

_“You look as dashing as ever.”_

 

**~*~**

 

Claire’s spoon sliced through the crystallized sugar shell of their shared creme brulee with a satisfying crunch. Biting her lip, she stifled yet another laugh over another humorous yet awful joke ( _God was he **always** this funny?_). Minutes had easily dripped into hours as they got to know one another once more over a bottle ( _or two_ ) of Sancerre.

 

Twenty years had passed - time leaving its marks on both of them physically, emotionally, and mentally - and yet, it was as if no time had passed at all.

 

Jamie Fraser ( _mid-forties, retired boxer_ ) had recently relocated to Edinburgh, though the partially-unpacked, sparsely-furnished look of his flat suggested that he wasn’t fully settled. Ever the family man, he kept in close contact with his sister Jenny, her husband and his best friend Ian, and their modest brood. He was a proud uncle of four and a great uncle several times over ( _Claire had lost count of the newer additions_ ). No longer fighting, he was back in town with a new prospect in tow, speaking his coaching guidance (barely a welterweight, he’d spotted the wee slip of a thing in France). He liked to run in the mornings and to read a good book after dinner with a strong glass of whisky in hand. His life was simple and quiet… and he was satisfied.

 

Claire Beauchamp ( _almost Fraser, once Randall, and now plain Beauchamp once more_ ) was an accomplished surgeon, at the forefront of modern neuroscience recently transferred to Jefferson in Philadelphia. She was visiting Edinburgh for a conference and speaking at a panel, regarding her ground-breaking discoveries in her Multiple Sclerosis trials. Following her divorce ( _she admitted with a rueful expression as she spied the faded albeit visible tan line on her left hand, hoping Jamie **wouldn’t** notice_), she decided to get a cat - a small gray beast named Adso who only appeared when he longed for her company. Daily, she jogged along Kelly Drive. She swore it was maintain her trim figure while keeping up with the ever surprising Philly food scene ( _she swore some man named Garces was her primary source of sustenance_ ), though she’d never admit it was a habit he’d instilled in her some twenty years ago. Her life was hectic and rather lonely at times… but she liked it just fine.

 

And yet here, tonight with Jamie, her very bones hummed, a preternatural force vibrating beneath her skin, lighting the end of every single nerve in her entire body ( _mystical and magical and yet familiar all the same_ ). Claire felt it when she touched his shoulder at the hostess station, and she recognized it again when the back of her knuckles grazed his ( _electricity… longing… passion… heat…_ ).

 

Her head jerked upwards in surprise, completely caught off guard by the sensation. Her eyes locked with his. Once clear and bright cornflower blue, his gaze darkened to such a deep shade of indigo Claire thought his irises turned black all together ( _the same look on his face as he faced down an opponent from his corner of the ring… and just before their bodies joined as one_ ). Her pulse dropped, throbbing low in her belly as her fingers released the spoon of their own accord, reaching to grasp his hand within her own.

 

Skin to skin, they touched. Their fingers roamed, twining together and traversing the familiar landscape made foreign by years spent apart without the half that made the other whole. Simultaneously, they exhaled, shoulders rising and falling as they relaxed into the warming, comforting language of touch with the trust only owed to one who has held your soul between their own hands...

 

...before both pieces of silverware clattered indelicately against the earthenware dish and each other.

 

“I’ll take this when yer ready!” Their waiter Geordie snapped as he deposited their bill with a sharp tap of his fingers to direct their attention towards the check, which proved futile. The entire world could’ve exploded around them, dissolving into outright war and chaos, and Claire still would’ve kept her eyes locked on the man before her.

 

Despite much chagrin and complaining on her part ( _“I’m a world-renowned neurosurgeon, Fraser! I can buy my own dinner!”_ ), Jamie paid the bill and played the part of the dutiful gentlemen, pretending not to notice that she slipped her share of the dinner into his coat pocket as they left their table even though she knew he’d return it before they parted ways… promising her that her company was enough payment. Instead, he waited and deftly clasped her hand in his own, guiding her way through the now empty restaurant.

 

They gathered their coats and scarves and other cold-weather accoutrements from the hostess before they exited the restaurant, still hand in hand. The weak flurries had given way to a full-fledged snowfall. A blustery wind whipped down the street. Claire shuddered against the cold, as did Jamie… though the warmth pooling deep in her belly suggested she shivered for a different reason entirely. She reached for him, adjusting and arranging his scarf at his neck to better protect him from the bitter chill. She fiddled with the tartan fabric and felt the warmth of his touch on her once more as he gathered her to his chest. Boldly, she tilted her chin upwards to meet his gaze before she sealed her mouth to his.

 

Heat flooded her body ( _a blazing fire she hadn’t felt in years reawakened, igniting deep within her core_ ). While she half expected him to push her away, she only wished he’d pull her closer. As if on cue, Jamie’s long arms wound around her willowy frame, gathering her close to his chest. Their kiss deepened while their hands roamed freely in search of steady purchase. Lust flooded her senses as fireworks burst behind her closed eyelids. Boldly, she nipped, taking his full lower lip between her teeth. When his tongue begged entrance, a breathy moan escaped her, entirely too loud and too forward for their current public state. Their fingers grappled, straining to gain traction on steady ground ( _twining between errant curls and cupping flushed cheeks_ ). As she pulled away, Claire should’ve been sorry, but she wasn’t. The snowflakes melting on her face did little to relieve the burning sensation Jamie’s touch had left upon her skin ( _just now… twenty-three years ago…_ ).

 

“So?” she half demanded, half asked with her hands still firmly gripping the lapels of his woolen coat. Jamie nodded, the corners of his mouth turning upwards as his large hands engulfed her smaller ones.

 

“So…” he agreed. His thumbs lightly grazed the knuckles of her hands that firmly grasped his jacket, holding him prisoner with her iron grip and whisky gaze.

 

He didn’t press her, never pushing her past boundaries she wasn’t willing to cross and only waiting for her to take the lead. Though he never said a word, Claire knew. She felt it in the way he held her face between his palms gently cradling her as if she were made of glass… how he returned her kiss fully and earnestly… the way his hips rocked against hers recreating that delicious friction she never in her life thought she’d feel again...

 

_It was enough to make her head spin, entirely dizzy in the way she needed him._

 

“Well, I certainly need a drink…” Claire whispered as she released her grip on Jamie’s coat and pressed her fingers to her lips. She stepped backwards, retreating from Jamie’s embrace and wrapping her arms across her chest. Wildly, her eyes scanned the streets for the offensive fluorescent lights of an open pub - anything to keep from meeting his gaze. Except every time she turned her head she only found Jamie ( _always Jamie_ ).

 

“I’ve got a bottle of Great Glen back at my place...”

 

He reached for her, offering her his hand and the promise that the night wasn’t over. Claire began to unwind her folded arms and extend her own palm, placing it within his larger one. She paused, her fingers hovering just above his wrist. Through the icy night air, she felt the warmth of his skin and his pulse beneath, the thrumming beat up-ticking to match her own racing heart.

 

“ _Come wi’ me…_ ” Jamie insisted with a twinkle glimmering at the corner of his eye. **“If ye dinna think it immoral…”**

 

_**To be continued...** _


End file.
